Eternity
by devilluck
Summary: Eternity is a long time, especially when spent waiting. Rated T for attempted suicide. Mild slash.


Title: Eternity

Rating: T

Warnings/Spoilers: Attempted suicide, mild slash. Don't think any episode spoilers.

Disclaimer: Do not own, sadly.

A/N: Quite angsty - not sure what prompted it. Reviews are much appreciated.

It's been centuries since he last saw them. Millennia, even. He'd half-hoped that the memory would have faded, but it hasn't. He can still remember the faint smell of herbs on Gaius, the expression on Morgana's face on her last day in Camelot. The way Gwen's hair curled around her face is so vivid in his dreams that he often wakes with an arm outstretched, trying to brush it back as he so often did. Their friendship had become even closer after she married _him_, often joking about which was the wife and which was the mistress. Lancelot, too, stands out in Merlin's memory – his voice haunts the warlock, offering so much imaginary advice that Merlin has begun calling it his conscience. Only in his thoughts, of course. People already think he's odd enough without him talking to people who aren't there.

Merlin stumbles over the thought, hating himself for still wanting to cry. He can usually put them out of his mind. Never forget, the tang of their deaths is still too sharp for that. He fears it always will be. It's the days like these that are the worst, though. Days when the dreams of _him_ are so clear that the loss is like the first few days after Camlann when he wakes. The grief pours through him, reducing the warlock to a shivering wreck on his bed, tired of losing his king again and again and _again_, even if only in his thoughts.

It hurts.

Merlin curses his mind. He would wish for the images to stop, for the blue eyes to stop disturbing his sleep, but this is the closest he's been to his lover in years. Possibly the closest he will ever be. The memories of _him_ make the others seem as if they are underwater. Even when awake, Merlin can feel fingers running over him, small kisses pressed to his temple. Familiar lips smirk at him as he bends over his work at a publisher's. Arms hold him close at night, as he stares at the cracks in the ceiling.

He runs his hands through his hair, causing it to stick up wildly, before looking around the small apartment. He never could stand big rooms, didn't feel comfortable in them. Even once he had been moved to the grander chambers befitting a Court Sorcerer, he had spent many nights in his old bed. His eyes, heavy with lack of sleep, picture his king in the kitchen now. He can almost hear the disgusted tone at the surroundings, and his lips quirk up unwillingly.

The warlock never used to be like this. At the beginning, once he had accepted their deaths, Merlin had been strangely optimistic. The other man would rise again, it was his destiny. Albion was in such disarray, it wouldn't be long before he was needed. As time went on, however, Merlin realised that the prophecy truly meant dire need. Civil wars ripped the country apart; the Great War itself threatened Albion's survival. Still his king slept. The warlock's memories, except those of Camelot, grew dim. He struggled to separate the lives he made for himself. Year blended with year, month with month. He was living in a world of black and white; any colour there had once been was drained with the fall of Camelot. Still his king slept. Had it not been for the aching in his body, the weariness which spoke of more than one mortal lifetime, Merlin might believe he himself was dead.

He cannot count the number of times he has stopped a stranger on the street, even after all these years. A flash of blond hair, a tone of voice; they capture his attention, immediately flooding the warlock with hope. It has never been _him._ Merlin has returned to the Lake more than once, falling to his knees in front of it, sobbing, clawing at the ground. He has begged to be allowed entrance, pleaded for a chance to see his lord. He cannot understand why mortals desire to live for eternity. It is a life filled with hurt; mourning for those you love, never allowed the opportunity to join them.

*****

A year ago, Merlin tried to kill himself. He had grown tired of waiting, feeling guilty for _wanting _something horrific to happen, just to see him again. Yet he would wait. He would wait for eternity, if he was needed, unless-Merlin swallowed, working against his suddenly dry mouth. Unless he _wasn't_ needed. His destiny had been to help his prince become the great king, uniter of Albion. He had succeeded. _What if he wasn't needed this time?_ What if he was not destined to see _him_ again? He tried to believe that destiny was not that cruel, but he knew, he _knew_ it could be. Merlin froze.

What if his king had already lived and died?

Merlin shook, unable to stand the thought yet unable to get rid of it. It slowly took over, creeping throughout his mind, until it was all he believed. Driven half-mad by the fear, he had bought several bottles of alcohol and pills. It would be slower than stabbing himself, but he knew from experience that he healed fast. He could only hope that it didn't extend to organ failure.

It did. From the moment he swallowed a handful of painkillers, he was trapped within his own body. His magic, decidedly disapproving, had caged him, harmlessly dissolving the drugs before it released him. He had spent the whole night throwing up, but with a new thought stuck within his mind – one of hope. He had a purpose. If his life was unnecessary, he would have died.

*****

It's this thought, now, which keeps Merlin going. Day after day, trudging through the bleak landscape of modern Albion, it is the thought that fate has not yet finished with him that keeps him going. The dreams are still there; they still leave him shaking and empty in the morning. But he will wait. He has to. The stupid prat couldn't cope without him.

Merlin will wait. He will wait for his king. For _Arthur._


End file.
